What made Suede so good?

Rather than the hoodies, bowl cuts, and football tops which donned the Britpack, Suede were made-up, stylised, and robustly avant garde

Published: Thursday, April 14, 2010

When I was growing up I thought Suede were the dog’s bollocks.

That early Brett Anderson and Bernard Butler partnership produced some of the most attractive licks and hooks of a period before Britpop and after grunge, when shoegazing’s introspectiveness was a parallel too tiresome.

But to call Suede post-grunge or reckon it alongside Britpop says more about timeliness and a commercial-versus-artistic faux pas in their moribund circa-naughties phase; it misfires from their raison d’etre.

Suede’s importance is difficult to disseminate for the new generation, so their reunion – inevitably without guitar-playing virtuoso Bernard Butler – will let them crack that themselves.

Back at their roots, greying now obviously, Suede is alma mater to Elastica, were colleagues of Blur, and the launchpad of the aforementioned Butler – producer of commercially gargantuan albums such as Duffy’s 2008 Rockferry and seminal acts like The Libertines.

They were the unsigned outfit touring chic spots in North London with a drum machine before Mike Joyce from The Smiths joined them. One member got sacked and that was Justine Frischmann. Former manager Ricky Gervais did quite well too.




It all brands them something of an unlikely, inverse supergroup.

Suede were a package band, but rather than the hoodies, bowl cuts, and football tops which donned some of the Britpack, their members – and particularly frontman Anderson – were made-up, stylised and robustly avant garde.

Their social commentary was steeped in the cider-decadence of a classless school of social nomads. Urban sex meets social politics, appealing to the promiscuity of an emerging group of dilettantes on the London underground

Suede’s unique selling point was precursor to that of the Libertines’ ten years later. It seemed loudly directed at a simmering pot of educated people with the means to shun expectation, social segmentation, and the class stratospheres. Those who’d indulge for indulging sake, and those who sought adventure did it with a Suede soundtrack.

Debut single The Drowners was a breath of fresh air. A grungy guitar opener seemed emanently British but miles apart from the Madchester sound. We had a singer who offered something new; northerly winds blowing ashes from Manchester to planet Camden. I love the Mondays and the Roses but squaring the vocal talents of Ryder and Brown against the mannered and effete range of Brett Anderson ain’t no contest.

Listen to the riff on Animal Nitrate, the Smiths-esque bass work, and the simple range of effects on Bernard Butler’s solid guitar glue. There was no need particularly for ostentation in the band’s sound, they had a singer and image that took care of that.

Their live shows too became wank-fodder for these same neon fantasists. Bombastic and ostentatious, they battered through anthems and slowed it down for converted acoustic numbers to cement the pithy reality in which they existed, touching the dreams of their adoring. Poetic and exploratory; an advert for a Hollywood death by misadventure looking like an emaciated dream seemed optimum. The band touched on that sentiment, tipping their hat to the triteness of some of what they stood for in with This Hollywood Life, and more subtly with The 2 of Us from their gift, album Dog Man Star.

Critical acclaim and packed US tours ensued while Britpop’s domestic heroes deemed transatlantic expansion a lost cause.

After Bernard Butler left the band in 1994, some argued their volatile relationship was key to the band’s dynamic, yet the fruits of the roots sewn by he and Anderson remained largely in tact. The band took on a bolder new sound, more production, and new stringtwiddler Richard Oakes carved an effects-heavy trademark. They organically became unwitting indie heroes, standing aside the big players atop the singles charts.

That’s not to say it didn’t square. One of the most striking neo-poems from their middling back catalogue was the decadent and anthemic Trash.

“We’re trash you and me. We’re the litter on the breeze, we’re the lovers on the street.”

They held their old ideals, just found a new vehicle that happened to be chart-friendly. One of the most prominent guitar riffs from the Britpop period was in culture-affirming classic  Beautiful Ones.

A guitarman’s riff and football ground chorus, Suede stood out on Britpop’s wallchart, proclaiming they were still the beautiful ones on a scene that evolved into them, not the other way around. It was a ballsy statement and retains a retrospective poignancy.

Third album Coming Up – home of Trash and Beautiful Ones and three more top ten singles – marked a peak. When the sellout international tours were over, the band proliferated written-for-chart singles which they’d hitherto notched by accident. The riffs regressed, the lyrics lazified and over-produced songs spluttered forth as Britpop – the seaworthy vessel onto which they latterly scurried – dwindled.

Their subsidiary record label hit the knackers yard and A New Morning came out in 2002. It was piss poor for many reasons. Retrospectively, we evaluate it on the basis that it killed a band that deserved to go out with some kind of scandalous wallop. Or not and be selling out stadia by now.

Neither happened: they collapsed in a trite little heap. It was most unbecoming.

But the legacy of Suede is not to be sniffed at: they were on the cover of Melody Maker before they’d released a single; had made the radio after five gigs; were the most written-about band in Britain prior to their debut album – and that topped the charts.

The band we adore who spawned a new school of music and withdrew just as quick; who didn’t do anything with a quiet flaccid limp but an erect gentleman’s strut; who brought the style and the cheekbones back to British music, and exported it as no other band could. That’s the Suede I remember.